


Buttons

by Magik3



Series: Kitty told me to name this series [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magik3/pseuds/Magik3
Summary: How can Illyana show Kitty, her best friend and now so much more, that her body is perfect even if she's not growing up as fast as she wants to?





	Buttons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Privilege](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10919574) by [KittyViolet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet). 



> This is the next segment in the storyline that runs from my work "Before We Kissed" through KittyViolet's "Immaterial Girl" and "Privilege." After that epic shopping trip, how can we not see more of that clothes Kitty bought and what Illyana would like to do to her in them?

  
What we were, we did not put a name to it. We were, like Kitty herself, sometimes insubstantial but always the most solid part of my life. We slept in the same bed most nights and after that time she nearly phased herself out of existence, we touched each other. We kissed each other. Sometimes we’d lie face to face just looking, fingertips tracing each other’s faces.  
  
Puberty was weird for Kitty. I would not have guessed this. I didn't have good comparisons, nor a good memory of when I started to have breasts. I did remember, vividly, getting a period. There were never any tampons in Limbo. Never. There was only moss and animal skins and the too-terrifying warnings from Cat that my blood would attract predators. And later, Belasco could make many things, but a workable tampon was not among them.  
  
I had a pretty good chest by the time I came out of Limbo, just no idea what to do with it. And sometimes, too many ideas. Coming of age in a demonic wasteland, I saw things that I didn’t even know how to think about at eleven, twelve, thirteen.  
  
For a while after I came back, age didn't mean very much to me. But gradually I saw, through Kitty's worried questions, that she had not developed the same as me, or Amara, Rahne, Dani. As if some parts of her were growing up and others were not.  
  
I think she worried on many levels but it was easiest to focus on, obsess about, getting boobs. Being attractive was some part of that, but also for her it was about the way she had imagined herself when she was a child -- and then coming into the X-Men so young, looking up to Storm and the others. In her mind there was a direct correlation between having an adult woman's body and being taken seriously.  
  
I wanted to tell her that boobs meant you got listened to less. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she should carry a sword. But she was right about herself. She didn't look like a child to me because she had been so much older long ago when I was six, but to all the X-Men, she was very much the kid.  
  
She told me about the fax, about how her phasing power had disrupted her hormones, quietly, late at night in bed together.  
  
I said, "So it will happen someday, only later."  
  
"They'll still see me as a kid," she said.  
  
I wanted to tell her this wasn't so bad. But also I understood. Piotr still treated me like I was maybe ten, twelve at most. It made me want to scream and hit him.  
  
It must have been somewhat the same for Kitty, with the fights she'd been in, the things she'd seen, everything she knew in that vast brain of hers, to be pushed aside like a child was beyond insulting -- it was also terrifying. We had to be older to be able to handle these lives. We had to understand how to hold the power we had, not be told it wasn't for us.

I did not know what to tell her. Some days I had enough trouble just getting certain residents of the mansion to treat me like a human being. (This was not entirely their fault, but that's another story.) I laced my fingers with hers and lay beside her in the cool darkness wishing I could make it different for her.  
  
"What if you grow up and I don't?" she asked.  
  
"Katya, I grew up a long time ago. But it is not the same. You are already, every year, more."  
  
Her breath blew out in a frustrated huff. "I used to think that. I mean, I get to do all this stuff. And I kept thinking as I got older that meant I'd get to show them what I can really do. What if for me growing up isn't about being more? Ilya, what if it's less? What if I become less and less real?"  
  
"I won't let that happen," I said, tightening my hold on her.  
  
She squeezed my hand, but she didn't sleep.  
  
The next few days, I thought about her question, about me growing up and her not. Did she think I would want to stop this … what we had? How to ask her that when we didn't have a name for it?  
  
One afternoon, I found her standing in front of the mirror in jeans and a shirt she'd bought at Privilege, turning one way and the other. “Does this make my boobs look bigger?” she asked.  
  
The shirt was a soft dark material, indigo or a warm deep blue, unbuttoned one too far to show the top of her breastbone.  
  
“Um … yes.”  
  
“You’re humoring me.” She turned to me, hands on hips.  
  
I didn't know how to tell her that the size of her boobs did not matter at all. Words were still hard sometimes, especially words about feelings, and words in English. What mattered, too much, was the feel of her nipple in my fingers. How fast that delicate nub went from hard to harder, how it made her suck in her breath, with a sound of surprise and joy. How it made a warm, dark ache between my legs.  
  
I crossed the room and put my hands on her ribs. Her breath quickened and everything changed.  
  
We used to touch each other all the time casually. And in combat, helping each other out in the Danger Room. Swapping back rubs, curling together in bed.  
  
Then the black rain that was Magus came and she nearly phased herself out of existence and I wanted so much to hold onto her forever. That night she kissed me. The whole night, sleeping and waking, trying things I hadn’t let myself dream of, felt like good magic, a place out of time.  
  
We hadn’t talked about it. But now I touched her and the buoyant weight of the night was back, pushing at me, pulling us closer, holding us up. And fragile -- not Kitty, but this space between us.  
  
Maybe more fragile because of the mall, the dressing room. I hadn't been thinking. Only she was too adorable with her pile of clothing, her skin flashing at me. I hadn't meant to go so far, but Kitty … her fingers … I wasn't sure she should know how much her fingers did to me.  
  
Phasing her hand between us, so brilliant, delicious. Every morning since, I woke wanting that. And I was afraid what she would think of me. Too much hunger? Too much demon?  
  
She doesn't know how fragile this is, all of it. Doesn't know that after I mastered the first set of spells, the second, the third, Belasco began teaching me how to destroy this world. I needed to see Kitty in patterns and stripes and little bits of frill and zippers. I needed zippers to be of the utmost importance.  
  
And buttons, little buttons. These foggy cream buttons on this indigo shirt. I put my fingers on the first button and slipped it through its hole. Pressed the cloth apart so I could see the flat space of her breastbone, the texture of muscle under her skin, the very faint rise of skin toward her nipples.  
  
Her chest rose and fell fast. As fast as mine? I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't look at her, only at my fingers on the next button. I slipped it sideways through the sewn hole in the fabric. Kitty put her hands on my shoulders and I set my legs a little further apart, trying to be steady for both of us even though I was shaking.  
  
I reached the button at the top of her belly. Only one more after this. I stopped and put a hand over her breast, rubbing the material of the shirt back and forth. She leaned against me, her body angled out so there was room for my hand. I put an arm around her back, stroked my fingers across the fabric that was rising as her nipple hardened.  
  
"This is not too small," I said, breathless.  
  
"But yours?"  
  
"Not this sensitive," I whispered. To make my point, I pinched lightly and she gave a little cry and burried her face in my shoulder.  
  
I slipped my fingers between the fabric and her skin. Cupped the hint of breast and brushed my thumb over her hard nipple, rubbed everything in my hand, the smooth skin, slight soft rise, the puckered skin around a stiff, hard point of want.  
  
I stumbled back and pulled her and got us to the bed without falling, somehow. She lay across the blanket, watching me as I crouched over her, found the last button. I slipped it open, pushed her shirt wide.  
  
One nipple was harder than the other. Had to remedy that. I put a hand over the hard, straining nipple, and my mouth on the other. Feeling her go from soft to hard between my lips, under my tongue. I made sounds, low, helpless moaning. She tangled her fingers in my hair and pressed my mouth to her. I sucked hard on this evidence of her need for me. Ran my tongue across her nipple from every angle.  
  
I was rubbing myself against her thigh, she moved her hips, entangled our legs more. The slick, wet fabric of my underpants rubbed between my legs.  
  
Everytime I sucked, she whimpered and mewed and pressed herself against me. Like there was a conduit of energy from her nipple to between her legs. I sucked hard again and she rocked her hips up, arched her back, grabbed handfuls of sheet and blanket. She was not phasing, not even a little. I made a note to myself: this keeps her anchored, maybe more than anything. More than kissing? Find out later.  
  
I did not stop sucking and licking and biting. She writhed, thrashed made quiet, shocked sounds that rose to a peak, fell, rose again and again. I joined her for one of those peaks and another, surges of pleasure and joy. But still my attention mainly on her breasts, my mouth, my hand, her chest arching up for me. Muscles clenched and fluttered inside me, sending more wetness through the first soaked layer of thin cotton into my pants.    
  
I went on until she pushed at me with her palms. We lay gasping, holding each other as tight as we could, my cheek pressed to the center of her chest, listening to the thunder of her heart.  
  
Kitty drew a steadying breath and asked, "So you like this shirt?"  
  
"Da," I said, and, still in Russian <but you cannot wear it out now; it is only for me.>  
  
"Whatever you said, I'm pretty sure the answer is yes."  
  
I tugged at the edge of shirt, flicked my thumbnail against the button and said, "Mine."  
  
Kitty knew I did not just mean the shirt. Her eyes glowed from the force of her grin.


End file.
